


the serene space she created

by crookedspoon



Series: Donation Fics [5]
Category: DCU (Comics), Titans (Comics)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Confessions, F/M, Light Bondage, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:33:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24025132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon
Summary: There's something that Dick has to tell Donna, but he can't say it. So he has her bind him with her lariat.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Donna Troy
Series: Donation Fics [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1598773
Comments: 6
Kudos: 94





	the serene space she created

**Author's Note:**

  * For [slifer_the_sky_noodle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slifer_the_sky_noodle/gifts).



> Please give a round of applause to sli for trading a charity donation for this fic and for giving me this wonderful idea to write. Thank you! <3
> 
> Many thanks to Neurotoxia for giving this a sensitivity once-over!

It's not that Dick can't see the worried frowns, it's that he chooses to ignore them. He knows he's the one who put them there, but he's fine, really, it's nothing.

Except that it's not nothing. It's a strain on their relationship and it's all his fault. Just because he can't relax. Can't let go.

They could be so good together. And they are – he has to believe that they are, because he's never happier than when all they do is share a chatty meal together, beat the bad guys side by side, or beat _each other_ doing silly, made-up exercises that usually end with them tangled up on the ground, sporting grins too wide to even kiss properly.

Donna's laughter still makes him blush because it's dazzling and beautiful and he can't quite believe they're where they are, in each other's arms rather than someone else's, the way it always seemed to be. Kory, and Terry, and even Roy, although at least with Roy things were never that serious, for either of them. But they dated him, too, both of them, at different times in their lives, and sometimes Dick wonders whether that should have made them notice their attraction to each other sooner.

It's not like Dick wasn't aware that he loved Donna. It's more that he's always qualified his love for her – _I love her like a sister, like my other half. I love her more than if she were really my lover_ – and it's true, he loves her in all those ways. But at the same time it was as though by tacking on those qualifications he was keeping his love in check. From becoming too big to contain.

As though somehow he'd ruin everything if he didn't.

Because he wasn't worthy of her. No matter that he considered her his other half. She's his _better_ half and even if she didn't have her divine powers, there'd be something god-like about her, something that sets her apart from him.

Or maybe Dick is worrying too hard because he can't worship her the way she deserves. He wants to, by God, he wants to – wants to prostrate himself before her, kiss her ankles and her shins, and serenade her with silly love songs, the way he had done jokingly when they were thirteen and his courtship of her more of a good-natured competition between him and Roy and Wally, and maybe even Garth, to see who could make her laugh the fastest or how thick they could lay it on before she started pulling their ears and telling them to knock it off.

He can still do the silly things, the sweet things, the 'kiss her eyelids and bring her flowers' things, even the 'curl up with her to watch a movie' things. They're good things that make his heart flutter, and he loves doing them with her.

It's just that. He wants to give her more sometimes. And he knows he doesn't need to, knows she wouldn't push him to, but. It would be a load off his back if physical intimacy was less of a minefield for him. If he could just kiss her and touch her and let himself be touched and have events unfold however they may without the constant dread of tripping any wires hanging over his head. The dread of spiralling, of having to cut things short yet again, of making her worry about him when it's the last thing he wants her to do.

He is sitting on the edge of the bed now, in the dark, head buried in his hands, water dripping off his nose and chin, breath rattling in his throat. He's shaking and his skin is crawling. He wipes the droplets off with his palms, then scrubs the hem of his shirt over his face until it's aching but dry.

He takes a shuddering inhale. Tells himself it is not raining. He's inside. He's safe. So are his friends. No one is going to take from him all that he loves.

It's over, so why does he still return to that time, that place, where raindrops streamed like blood flecks from his face and gunsmoke washed into his skin? He wants to move on, leave it all behind, but the guilt and the complicity won't let go of him.

His hands are stained with blood even though he did not pull the trigger. How dare he even touch Donna with them?

He nearly jumps when he notices her hovering in the doorway, uncertain whether he wants company or needs to be alone.

He can't look at her. Can't look at the worried frown that's all his fault. He should not be making her worry. He should be making her smile and laugh and maybe even moan in pleasure if she so desires – and she does, she _does,_ but he just. He just can't. Can't go there. Still can't go there, when all they did was kiss and grab each other until things became heated and Donna swung her leg over his thighs to straddle them, pushing him against the back of the sofa as she rocked against him, and it was good, so good – up until the moment he heard _her_ voice whisper _mi amor._

His stomach clenches. His entire body clenches just to think of it.

It's been like this for weeks. He should be better by now. Should have digested it by now, even though he knows that's not how it works. But for Donna, he should have tried harder.

He _wants_ her. Wants to be intimate. And she wants that, too. They've communicated as much early on, but then. The superhero life happened and when they managed to fall into bed together, they fell into it bruised and exhausted and all they did was draw each other into grateful hugs and fall asleep, breathing in each other's scent.

"Hey," Donna says, suddenly kneeling in front of him. "What's wrong?"

He looks up startled. He hadn't noticed her approach. Nor had he noticed her turn on the bedside lamp, as if the gloom inside his own head extended outward and covered his vision. He needs to get it together or one day he'll end up with a knife between his ribs because he didn't pay attention in the field. 

"Do you want me to stay with you?" she asks.

Her voice is soft and all she does is seek eye contact. She doesn't move from her crouching position, nor does she reach out to touch him. He is at once grateful for that gesture and greedy for her touch, even knowing he would recoil from it.

"It's just, I figured if you wanted to be alone you would have picked a spot where I was less likely to run into you than our shared bedroom."

She attempts a crooked smile and so does he, but it feels wavering and unconvincing. His eyes dart around like a buzzing fly, avoiding her gaze.

"Do you want me to be quiet?"

He shakes his head. "No," he says and his voice sounds strange even to his own ears. Strangled. _Tell me about Paradise Island,_ he signs, because he cannot trust himself to speak. He's grateful that her training there had covered sign languages, and that she got to practice their modern uses when Joey was still part of the team.

She settles next to him against the side of the bed, stretching out her legs and painting vivid pictures with her words, of the vast, blue Mediterranian Sea that surrounds the island she called her home for many years, and of the island itself, with its lush greenery and colorful flora, its grand architectural styles and its wide open meadows. Dick lets the stories of her adventures with Wonder Woman wash over him. He knows them all by heart. Donna had been fond of telling them when they were younger. Stories of how the Amazons have raised her as their little sister, how they gifted her the powers of strength and speed and flight, and how she gained her own golden lariat, much like Wonder Woman's golden lasso.

In idler moments long ago, Dick had daydreamed about asking Donna to tie him up with it, wondering what it would be like. They had not been as close as they are now, and maybe a part of him had not been ready to admit even to himself that he enjoys the feeling of ropes biting into his skin. Maybe his long career as a professional boy hostage had left marks on him, or maybe he's always been wired a little differently. It's hard to tell when all his friends are equally as strange compared to your average Joe.

Dick stands abruptly. Donna breaks off her tale.

His legs carry him over to the wardrobe where she keeps her uniform and accessories. Among them, the lariat. For a moment, he just stares at the length of coiled rope, glinting golden in the lamplight. Those who had been subjected to its truth-extracting powers spoke of a burning sensation whenever they tried to be disingenuous. That was one of the reasons he had never experimented with it despite his curiosity: his friends might have used the situation to tease embarrassing secrets out of him. Or crucial ones. Such as Batman's identity. 

But now, there are no friends around and no secrets worth hiding. Only a girlfriend he owes answers to, but can't address them.

"Bind me," he says, handing her the rope.

"Now?" she asks, surprise as evident in her voice as on her face. "Why?"

"I..." he says, but falters again. He finishes his thought by signing it. _There's something that I need to tell you. But I can't say it._

Misery sits deep in his bones when his gaze finds hers to implore her. He feels heavy with it, bogged down, as though sinking into mud and morass.

"Make me say it."

There's a pregnant pause as she looks at the coil of rope in their hands and into his eyes. He reads apprehension in them and in the rest of her body. There is no telling as to what she's thinking. So he forces a smile to reassure her, though it feels more like a grimace.

"I'm not breaking up with you if that's what you're worried about," he jokes but that also falls flat.

Immediately, he hates himself for saying it. What if she's really worried about that? It's unthinkable that _she_ should be the one to worry, but then again, he hasn't exactly made her feel as boundlessly loved as she deserves. That's on him. 

Maybe the smart choice _would_ be to break up with her so that she could find someone better but the mere thought of it is akin to the thought of cutting off his own arm. Not something you should attempt on a whim or because you're feeling guilty.

"Okay," she says as she takes the rope from him. "I'll do it. If that's what you need."

"Thank you."

He turns around and clasps his hands behind his back, offering himself up to her.

"You want me to bind your wrists?" she asks.

"My wrists, my arms, my torso – whatever else you think necessary. I don't think I can do this unless I feel like there is no way out."

"Sounds to me like you miss the old days of being tied to a pole every other day, Houdini Junior."

"Maybe I do." Those were brighter, happier days. When he hadn't been brought to his knees under the weight of death yet. Preventable death. Death in his name, and thus death to lay at his feet.

He inhales deeply through his nose, trying to center himself. He can't think of that now. He has to focus on healing. On Donna. 

He sucks in a breath when she cinches the rope tight around his wrists. This is good. Maybe he should have asked her for something like this sooner.

With the efficiency of long years of practice, she ties him up securely – the sensation of the rope digging into his arms and winding around his chest has something soothing about it. He feels held like this. Supported. And maybe that's fucked up. Maybe he should be feeling more vulnerable than this – and a part of him does for what he is about to reveal – but beyond that, he couldn't feel safer. He trusts Donna with his life. 

"There," she says as she tugs at the rope one last time. "How's that?"

He wriggles against his bonds, and is pleased to note he won't be getting them out by himself anytime soon. The rope is getting warmer the harder he tests it.

"Good," he says and licks his lips. "It's good."

In fact, it's better than good. He feels a little weak-kneed and more than a little hard. 

"I love you," he says on an exhale and kisses her, resting his forehead against her.

"Was that what you wanted to tell me? I would have believed you even without all this."

Dick's lips curve into a faint smile. "At least now you know for sure."

He kisses her again and takes one last shuddering breath before sinking to his knees in front of her. It only seems right to assume a posture of repentance. It's not forgiveness that he wants, nor is it a clean conscience, because there will be neither for him here or anywhere, but he needs to confess all the same.

So confess he does.

After Donna compelled him to speak.

He is grateful for that much. He's not sure he could have done it without the help. He feels himself go quiet again, to withdraw, until the heat of the rope forces him to stutter out the words he's kept to himself for so long. They come out broken and jumbled, but they do come.

That in itself is a relief. It hurts. It hurts so much to remember and to confess it all, but. Donna deserves to know that it's not her fault he reacts the way he does whenever their closeness becomes too much for him.

An unfathomable sadness lodges in his chest, the depth of which he hasn't felt since his parents died, as he recounts what happened with Mirage and why Kory broke up with him that time. With Blockbuster and with Tarantula on the rooftop right after that. His sweat feels just like the rain did that night, cold and clinging, seeping through his skin and chilling his bones.

If not for the bonds holding him together he might have broken into pieces already.

But Donna is there with him. She's kneeling next to him and gathering him in her arms, pressing his forehead against the side of her neck where her pulse is knocking beneath the skin as hard as his own.

"They're all dead because of me. Blockbuster, he—"

"Shh, it's over," Donna soothes, stroking his hair. "He can't hurt you or anyone you love ever again."

Slowly, she loosens the knots that are holding the rope in place and as it unwinds, so does something inside Dick. His body is still tense and shaking, but his head feels untethered and floaty.

"Thank you for trusting me with this," Donna says as she rubs feeling back into Dick's arms.

"I love you, Donna. So much. It pains me that I can't be more for you. That I can't be—"

She stops him with a soft kiss to his lips before he can beat himself up more.

"You're more than enough, Dick. You've always been. This changes none of that. You're still the best person I know."

He feels unworthy of her praise but he doesn't protest when she kisses him again. In fact, he feels selfishly greedy for her kisses.

Eventually, she helps him to his feet. He feels drenched and disgusting as he scrubs at his eyes. Donna follows him into the bathroom.

"Do you need anything?"

HIs smile is tired when he says, "I've got all I need right here. But since you're asking. I need you to not pity me. Please."

She schools her features as she nods. "Of course." His brave warrior princess.

He kisses her one last time and says, "I'll be out in a second."

Stepping into the shower, he turns the water as close to scalding as he can take it. His skin is tender and rubbed raw in places and pain slices through him in waves. It helps to keep the dark memories at bay. He showers himself off in a cold spray, soothing his ruby red skin.

Donna is sitting up in bed when he returns, pretending to read. He can feel her attention on him even as she's trying not to focus on him so completely.

Maybe he shouldn't have told her. Maybe they'd be better off if he hadn't burdened her with the knowledge of what happened to him. Maybe... but too late now. He's too tired to worry about it any longer.

He slides beneath the sheets, curling up against her. He feels so drained and empty, but a part of him also feels relieved. He's been struggling so long to tell her, but he couldn't find the words. His voice would just forsake him. But now she knows, and it's... he doesn't know yet what that's like. He's deeply ashamed about what happened and it makes him sick to remember, but. He doesn't want to hide anything from Donna.

As he shifts, he notices her lariat coiled beneath her pillow. His cheeks heat a little.

She places her hand on it.

"Just in case you're ever worried I might not be who I seem to be."

He exhales shakily and nods against her. There's too big of a tempest raging in his chest right now. He's torn between feelings of shame and of gladness, because his girlfriend is looking out for him. Blockbuster is gone, and he won't have to fear another Mirage incident again.

He wraps his arms around her and holds her close. He doesn't know what he'd do without her, his better half. She makes him feel complete. Even when he's broken.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "This Morning" by Luci Tapahonso.


End file.
